


Catching Up

by Saziikins



Series: Journeys [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:50:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the christening and their talk, Sherlock and Greg meet up again. AKA: There's some porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is set after Left Behind. It's probably worth reading that first.

A single candle flickered on top of the fireplace. It was contained within a red glass tumbler. The light reflected in the television, and it filled the room with the scent of vanilla. It was mesmerising in its simplicity.

Greg carried the single bowl of syrup sponge pudding from the kitchen, flicking off the light as he went. He sat down on the sofa beside Sherlock, close but not so that they touched. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them over at the ankle. He handed Sherlock a spoon and he nodded his thanks as he scooped some of the dessert up, along with the single cream.

Greg smelt of the wine he’d spilt on his collar. He smelt like washing detergent (Bold two-in-one, Crystal Rain and White Lily scent). He smelt faintly of aftershave (Hugo Boss Element), deodorant (Lynx Africa) and shampoo (apple).

Sherlock wrapped his lips around the spoon, tasting the sickly sweet treacle, cooled by the cream. He turned his head a fraction, until his eyes met Greg’s brown ones.

“How is it?” Greg asked, his voice softer than Sherlock had ever heard.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied, collecting another spoonful as if to prove the point.

They’d conversed tonight. More than they ever had before. Greg had laughed, deep crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes, his straight white teeth on display. The sound of his laughter, the sound deep and rumbling, had made Sherlock’s pulse race until he wished he’d stop laughing so he could slow his own reactions down.

Greg ate three mouthfuls of dessert for every one of Sherlock’s, until all there was left were crumbs and a small puddle of cream. Greg dropped his spoon down into the bowl with a clatter and scooped the cream up with the tip of his index finger, leaving Sherlock to watch in disbelief as he lifted his hand to his mouth and sucked it off. Greg had no idea how erotic it was. Not a clue. He put the bowl down on the table, and he rested his elbow against the back of the sofa so he could better angle his body in towards Sherlock’s.

Greg was resting close to the arm of the chair and Sherlock had plenty of space behind him to retreat into if that was what he wanted. It wasn’t.

He swallowed though, glancing down at the empty bowl before dropping his own spoon into it. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. Whether to drape his arm along the back of the sofa or drop them both into his lap, wringing his fingers together.

“You alright?” Greg asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Is this where we…” He waved his hand between them, frowning, glancing around at the living room. It had only the barest of furniture. Nothing on the wall, besides a cheap Ikea clock and the Men And Women Of New Scotland Yard calendar (Greg wasn’t in it; Sherlock had checked).

“It’s whatever you want,” Greg said.

“Whatever we want,” Sherlock corrected.

Greg nodded, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip. There were questions on his lips, Sherlock could see it. They’d not talked about what this was, where it was going, if they wanted it to lead down a particular path.

Three nights had passed since the christening. Sherlock had led him into Baker Street, and they’d stood by the door of 221B together, the words evaporating. “I still have work tomorrow,” Greg had said, his hands clenched by his sides. “Maybe I should…”

“Right. But you know I…” Sherlock frowned. The words didn’t exist. Or if they did, he didn’t know what they were.

“Not really,” Greg replied with a hollow laugh. But he reached up, his hand hovering between them for a moment before he dropped it again. “D’you want to come over for dinner?”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “You have work,” he said.

Greg shook his head. “Not today. I mean. Wednesday. I’m not working on Thursday, got a long weekend. Maybe. Maybe if you want to… Maybe if I want to prove to you that I’m okay, then maybe you come over and see for yourself?”

Greg’s flat wasn’t a safe environment. Sherlock had no protection there, no bedroom to run into and lock, no laptop to distract him… It wasn’t that he feared Greg, but that he feared what he wanted for them, and the thought that perhaps Greg didn’t want it after all.

“Wednesday. Fine,” he agreed before the words had been processed.

Greg smiled at him, but it was flat, his lips forced into it, his eyes unshining. “Have a good night and I’ll see you… y’know, if you want to swing by the Yard, you can.”

“Yeah, well, I have cases of my own,” Sherlock said. “But Wednesday. Where is it?”

“The flat? I’ll text you the address. Say… eight o’clock?”

“Eight? Yes.”

And with that he watched as Greg turned and jogged back down the stairs and out of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock lost track of how long he stood in the doorway. But when his phone beeped and Greg’s name flashed up on his screen, it was gone half past ten. He had Greg’s new address now, and he looked it up on Google Street View so he knew what to expect.

So he arrived only a little after eight o’clock on Wednesday, having been made late by delays on the tube. Greg waved away his apologies and accepted the bottle of red wine Sherlock had brought with him.

A single candle had been lit on top of the fireplace. There were two lamps turned on in the room, one tall by the closed curtains. The other was stood on a sideboard. Warming, but not overtly romantic. The one-bedroom flat smelt like cooked red wine, and onions and chicken and Greg confirmed that he’d put a coq au vin together. “Just shove all the ingredients in the slow cooker and hey presto,” he said with a smile as he led Sherlock into the gully kitchen.

Sherlock picked up the bottle opener from the side and proceeded to uncork the wine. The shelves were neatly arranged, the jars of many sizes labelled in Greg’s scrawl. Flour, sugar, mixed herbs, pistachio nuts, cumin, coriander…

“You… cook,” Sherlock said with some hesitance as he inspected the array of spices on offer. “Properly.”

Greg laughed, pouring them each a glass of wine. He stood beside him. “I can cook,” he said. “You don’t need to sound so shocked about it.”

Sherlock reached up, taking down one of the jars and unscrewing the top. The sweet smell of cinnamon immediately wafted out, and he closed his eyes for a moment to savour it before closing the jar back up again.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Greg took his first sip of the wine Sherlock had brought (Château Castera, from the Bordeaux region of France, most definitely not to Mycroft’s taste). Greg raised his eyebrows, swallowing it down. “Well, I’m no expert,” he said with a smile. “But yeah. Good. Cheers.”

“Do you need me to do anything?” Sherlock asked, glancing around at the kitchen.

“Nope, it’s all in order. You go and sit.”

Sherlock carried his glass to the living room. There was one single sofa, worn brown leather, with a red cushion at either end. He sat down on the far end against one of the cushions. There was a table in front of them, knives and forks in a pile on top of it. Sherlock put his glass down and took a breath, listening to the cars revving by the traffic lights opposite Greg’s building.

He looked up as Greg joined him, carrying two plates with chicken and mashed potato and vegetables.

“I hope this is okay?” Greg said as he put them down on the table, taking a seat on the other end of the sofa. “I realise you’re not always a big eater, so just have whatever you fancy.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. He pulled the table a little closer to the chair, swinging his legs up onto the sofa before placing his plate on his lap. “I knew I’d be eating tonight, so I prepared myself.”

He glanced at Greg, who was watching him with a bemused smile as though he wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. Sherlock smiled, handing him the other knife and fork. “I do know how to take care of myself,” Sherlock said. “I’ve survived this long.”

Greg chuckled, cutting into his chicken. “Yeah, just about. You’ve cut it a bit fine a couple of times.”

“More than a couple,” Sherlock admitted.

“What happens?” Greg asked. “When you nearly die?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I feel as though I saw things but… I can’t remember them now.”

“No white light?”

Sherlock paused, enjoying a bite of his chicken. It was well-seasoned and flavoured with rosemary and thyme. “No. Snippets of… memories, I suppose.”

“Whole life flashing before your eyes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What is it with you and ridiculous death cliches?”

Greg shrugged. “I’ve never nearly-died before. I just wondered if it was like what they say.”

“What who say?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? But these cliches don’t come from no where, surely?”

Sherlock paused over a mouthful of mashed potato. “I saw things. Memories blended with… dreams, I suppose. Nightmares. It’s not something I’m planning to repeat until I reach… well, an older age.”

“No more jumping off roofs?”

“No rooftops, no guns, no drugs, nothing. It turns out after all those years of having a death wish that I… simply don’t anymore.”

“What changed?” Greg asked.

Sherlock smiled around his wine. “Oh, I’m not telling you that.”

Greg grinned at him. “C’mon. Out with it.”

“Emma might have something to do with it,” Sherlock admitted, smiling a little fondly at just the very thought of John and Mary’s daughter. “I want to see her get older.”

“Yeah. Yeah, she’s great.”

“How are your children?”

There was a long pause while Greg had a long gulp of his wine. “Good,” he finally said. “Eight and six now.”

“Sorry, should I not mention it?”

“It’s fine,” Greg said, turning to him. “Truth be told, I thought you’d deleted it or something.”

“No. But you never talk about them. You don’t even have their photograph on your desk at work. I thought maybe it made you too…”

“Too sad?” Greg finished for him. “Is that all you think I am these days? Sad?”

“I think a great deal of things,” Sherlock said carefully. “Sad is one of them. But I told you about that the other night.”

“I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And I think I got a bit defensive, and I think you’re not completely wrong. But I don’t know exactly what it is I need, if that makes sense?”

“I understand,” Sherlock replied, putting his plate down on the table, though his meal remained half-eaten. “I did corner you.”

Greg smiled at him. “You did. But I’m glad you did. Because cooking coq au vin for yourself seems a bit…”

“Pathetic?”

Greg pulled a face. “I was going to go with wasteful.”

“Oh.”

Greg grinned. “It’s alright,” he said. “I saw those christening pictures John put up on his blog. They look great.”

“They’re photoshopped,” Sherlock said, pulling both legs up onto the sofa and leaning back against the chair arm. “They don’t show Emma’s vomit on John’s jacket.”

Greg laughed, his eyes sparkling as he put his empty plate on the table. His laugh alone gave Sherlock goosebumps and made his heart race. “God, you know, I looked for the sick in the photos and I thought I must have made up that it even happened. But she did throw up on him, didn’t she?”

Sherlock smiled. “Right down the front of his jacket,” he confirmed. “And then on his shoulder.”

“Well, she’s definitely got a sense of occasion, I’ll give her that.”

“She was good as gold the rest of the day. In fact, it all went smoothly.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, it did. And you really did an excellent job with that speech.”

“I’m not sure why they made me godfather,” Sherlock admitted, cradling his wine glass between his hands. “I told them not to but they insisted.”

“Because they love you, Sherlock. And they know you’ll do whatever it takes to look after their little girl.”

“Do yours have godfathers?”

“Nope,” Greg said. “Not religious.”

“I didn’t think John and Mary were,” Sherlock said. “I think they felt as though they had to live up to some sort of standard as parents. I don’t know. It was a pleasant enough ceremony, I suppose.”

“And you didn’t make fun of any of the hymns.”

“Oh, the hymns were pathetic choices.”

Greg laughed. “I didn’t sing,” he said. “I just moved my lips and pretended. I thought that if there was a God, and if that God was in that church, I’d definitely be cursed to hell for singing in one of his houses, especially with my singing voice.”

“Is it that bad?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

“Oh, it’s dreadful. Honestly.”

Sherlock smiled. “I can’t lie and say mine is much better.”

“Seriously?”

“Why do you think I play the violin?” Sherlock asked.

Greg grinned. “Ah. Yeah, not many violinists are singers too. Why did you choose the violin?”

“Everyone kept telling me how difficult it would be to learn. The more they told me it was too hard, the more I wanted to do it.”

“Stubborn bastard,” Greg said with a soft smile. “I’ve got some syrup sponge pudding to heat up. Do you want some?”

“I don’t think I could manage a whole one.”

“I’ll put one in a bowl then, and we’ll share it. Cream or custard or ice cream?”

“Cream,” Sherlock said instantly.

Greg beamed at him as he stood up. “Thank God,” he said. “I might have had to inadvertently pour the custard down the sink if you’d said that.”

“I hate custard too.”

They glanced at each other before laughing. Greg collected the plates up and carried them to the kitchen. He emerged after a few moments to top up their wine glasses before heading back to the kitchen. Sherlock shuffled to the centre of the sofa so he could stretch his legs out the other way. When Greg sat down with the dessert, they were far closer than they had been before.

Sherlock felt Greg’s closeness, could feel his warmth almost as though they were touching.

“Is this where we…” he asked, gesturing between them after they’d finished the dessert.

“It’s whatever you want,” Greg said.

“Whatever we want,” Sherlock corrected.

Greg licked his bottom lip. “Look, I. I don’t really know what you want, to be honest. And I don’t want to make a fool out of myself either.”

“The night of the christening, I realised, or discovered or deduced that you… feel that… that word,” Sherlock started. “That you feel it for me. It shouldn’t have taken me so long to work it out, but it did. You were jealous of John and-”

“-No, hang on.” Greg held his hands up. “What I said about John. I realise it sounded really harsh. I do like him, you know? I do.”

“I know. I know what you meant and why you said it.”

“Good. Right then.”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. “It’s a big step,” he said. “To… to even decide what to do, not least follow it through.”

“Yeah,” Greg breathed out, pulling a face. “Yeah, it is.”

Sherlock glanced at where Greg’s arm was resting on the back of the sofa. He reached out and pressed his fingers against the inside of his wrist, until he could feel his pulse. He knew Greg’s resting heart rate as well as he knew his shoe size and his blood pressure. He knew it was elevated now. He knew his own heart was racing.

He moved his hand until his fingers covered Greg’s palm. Greg curled his fingers around them, and they each looked up at the same time, meeting one another’s eyes. Slowly, Sherlock turned his hand until their fingers laced together. Greg’s nails were neatly cut, his palms softer than Sherlock had ever expected.

Sherlock inched a little closer along the sofa.

“I shouldn’t have put garlic in the food,” Greg muttered. “Or onions.”

“We both ate them,” Sherlock said.

“Right. Yeah, we did.” Greg grinned a little nervously, licking his bottom lip again. “Right, okay.”

“What if this doesn’t work?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “What if we… and then you realise it wasn’t what you really wanted?”

“Are you trying to talk yourself out of it?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” Sherlock glanced down at Greg’s knees. “I’m afraid of tomorrow morning,” he said. “Waking up and… finding everything’s changed, but not in the way I want it to. Like when I came home and found John no longer lived at Baker Street and he was going to get married and you were sad and… everything changed.”

Greg reached out, two fingers gently pressing under Sherlock’s chin, urging him to look up at him. He stroked Sherlock’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Look at me, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Just look. And see for yourself.”

Sherlock looked. He saw Greg’s dilated pupils. The flush of his cheeks. The tension in his forehead and in his jaw. He saw his dark eyes, gazing at him, open, warm, sincere. “Do you?” Sherlock whispered. “That word, do you…”

“I love you,” Greg said, and the emotion behind those three words crossed his eyes. “God, I do.”

“And tomorrow?”

Greg nodded. “And the next day and the day after that.”

“Saturday.”

Greg laughed a little. “Yeah, on Saturday. And the following Saturday and… all the sodding Saturdays.”

“What if a new dictatorship came in to power and decided the UK would have a six-day week and banned Saturdays?”

Greg laughed. “Oh, you insufferable bastard,” he muttered, before leaning forward, almost closing the gap between them. On instinct, Sherlock let his eyes fall closed, licking his lips. He waited. “Are you sure?” Greg whispered, his breath brushing against Sherlock’s closed mouth.

Sherlock made a tutting sound and brought their lips together himself. Greg’s lips were soft, parted. His hand closed around Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb rubbing against his cheekbone. Sherlock dropped his hand onto Greg’s knee in response, mirroring Greg’s kisses with his own, keeping it soft and slow and tender.

“Hang on just a sec,” Greg muttered, breaking the kiss. He turned his body in the chair a bit. “Gonna get a cricked neck if I’m not careful.”

Sherlock smiled, leaning towards him to rub his nose against his jaw, shaved earlier that afternoon. Only a little shyly, he pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek then.

Greg smiled at him. “This all good?” he asked.

“I want everything,” Sherlock said, looking at him. “We tiptoed so quietly around this, we didn’t even hear each other coming. But not now.”

“Everything?”

“Will you take me to bed?” Sherlock asked.

Greg’s cheeks went even pinker, if that were possible. He let out a long breath before nodding. He had one long gulp of his wine before getting up, his knee cracking as he stood. They both had a quiet chuckle, Greg holding his hand out to help Sherlock up from the chair. Sherlock took it.

“You should blow the candle out,” Sherlock said. “We don’t want any fires. Not in this room, anyway.”

Greg laughed, walking to the fireplace. He blew it out before turning the table lamp off. “My room’s a mess,” he said. “I wasn’t, well, expecting company in it.”

Sherlock nodded and followed Greg to the door. Greg switched the light on and led him inside. There were a few discarded shirts on the bed, as though Greg was trying to find the right one to wear. The dirty linen bag was close to over-flowing, and there was a pile of old newspapers beside the wardrobe, but Sherlock wouldn’t describe it was messy, just lived in.

Greg turned on a lamps beside the bed, and Sherlock turned the main light off without needing the instruction. Sherlock closed the door. The room was full of a soft hue, not overly bright. They stopped, watching each other, before Sherlock finally bent down and unlaced his shoes. He stepped out of them and pulled his socks off, watching as Greg pulled his own socks off. Greg lounged across the bed in his jeans and his shirt.

The choice was Sherlock’s. He could hear Greg’s soothing words even when he wasn’t saying them. He knew how far, how much, how fast was up to him and Greg would lead if he had to, but only when he had Sherlock’s permission first.

But Sherlock joined him on the bed. He sat beside Greg’s legs and cupped his face in his hands and kissed him again, sinking into it.

He focused on it, surrounded his senses in him. He forced everything else out of his mind, because this was the thing he most wanted to know. How it was to kiss Greg, to be surrounded in his scent and his touch and his kiss.

Greg’s hands stroked over his shoulders and down his arms, and Sherlock caught his soft hums with his kisses. Their tongues touched, briefly, hesitantly, before withdrawing again. Mostly Sherlock learned his lips, the curve of them, his thinner upper lip and thicker bottom one. He took that one between his lips, sucking a little. He broke the kiss to check for Greg’s reactions, and found him smiling, nodding.

“Yeah, good,” Greg murmured, guiding him back close again. They kissed and kissed, exploring, pushing, retreating, learning. Sherlock caressed his cheek and stroked the side of his neck.

He took hold of Greg’s hands and guided them to his shirt. They gazed at one another. Sherlock nodded once and leaned forward to brush his lips against Greg’s neck as he began to unfasten Sherlock’s shirt. His knuckles grazed Sherlock’s skin, and he trembled, rubbing his nose against Greg’s jaw.

Greg eased Sherlock’s shirt apart, his fingers trailing back down between his pectoral muscles until they rested just beneath his ribs. Sherlock licked his lips, shuffling a little closer as he unfastened Greg’s shirt in response. He smiled, amused by the little wine stain on Greg’s collar, and Greg laughed as he captured him in a soft kiss.

Greg had hair running down from his collarbone, along his pectoral muscles and down towards his stomach. Sherlock glanced down at his more hairless body, comparing, assessing. He shrugged his shirt off and Greg did the same, letting it drop down beside the bed.

“I have scars on my back,” Sherlock warned. “A fair few.”

“I have a tattoo,” Greg muttered, biting his bottom lip.

Sherlock stared at him. “What?” he asked. “Where?”

“On my back. Well, shoulderblade and back, to be more precise.”

“Show me.”

“Promise not to laugh?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “I can’t promise,” he said. “Is it really that bad?” Greg grinned, shrugged, and then lay down on his front on the bed. Sherlock leaned down, studying the stag tattoo which took up a quarter of his back. “How old is it?” he asked.

“I got it when I was 20. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Sherlock laughed, reaching out and tracing the outline of it with his finger. “It’s very well done,” he said. “I actually like it.”

“Really?” Greg asked, looking at him from over his shoulder. “I haven’t looked at it in ages.”

Sherlock smiled, leaning down to kiss it. “It’s a good surprise,” he said.

Greg laughed and rolled onto his back, taking hold of Sherlock’s arms and guiding him down into a kiss. One of his hands rested on the back of Sherlock’s head, and he felt instantly warmed by how possessive and needy it felt. The kisses began slow, curious, tender, but began to deepen, Greg parting his lips to grant Sherlock’s tongue access to his mouth. Greg’s fingertips ran over his back, against where Sherlock knew his scars stood out.

“What do you want from this?” Greg asked, his hand rubbing in a slow circle on Sherlock’s lower back, making him arch towards his touch. “Tonight, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. He sat up. “I want… this. I want everything.”

“There’s no need to try to do it all tonight.” Greg sat up and leaned against the headboard. “Come here.”

Sherlock scooted closer, sharing a chaste kiss with him. He straddled Greg’s thighs, smiling as Greg’s arms wrapped around him and guided him into another kiss. The questions faded into nothing. Greg touched all the places on Sherlock’s body which had been ignored for so many years.

What Greg did, Sherlock copied. They felt over one another’s chests, stroking fingertips against nipples. Sherlock found Greg’s were especially sensitive, and he bent his head down to swirl his tongue around one, rolling the other between his thumb and index finger. Greg’s breathing quickened, his head tipping back as Sherlock lathered him in attention.

“Mmm, hang on,” Greg breathed out after a few minutes. He reached for the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. “Are you happy for me to do this?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded, dropping his hands to the button of Greg’s jeans. “If you are too?”

“Yeah, I am.”

They undressed each other, Greg stripping off first, until he lay along the bed, his cock hard against his stomach as he eased Sherlock’s boxers down his thighs. Sherlock wriggled out of them, dropping them down on the side of the bed until he was kneeling by Greg’s side.

Sherlock took the time to study Greg’s body, the hair on his chest, his soft stomach, hipbones jutting down, the hair surrounding his leaking cock. He had strong thighs, covered in more hair than Sherlock’s were. His toenails were as neatly cut as his fingernails. His second toe was longer than his big toe, and it made Sherlock laugh as he kissed him.

“Hey,” Greg muttered, reaching down to squeeze Sherlock’s backside. “What’s the laughter for?”

“Your toes are stupid.”

Greg snorted with laughter. “What the hell is wrong with my toes?”

“Your big toe isn’t the biggest toe.”

Greg burst out with laughter. “And what, have you got perfect toes then?” He gripped Sherlock around the waist and tackled him down onto his back. Sherlock laughed, curling his toes up under his feet to hide them. “Oh God, cramp!” he yelled out, the pain shooting through his foot. “Ow!”

Greg shuffled down the bed. “Which one?” he asked.

“Right.”

Greg took Sherlock’s right foot in his hand, holding it tightly until the cramp began to ease away. Sherlock looked at him a little sheepishly. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Greg grinned and began to kiss up his calves. “Perfect toes though,” he said. “Damn it, I knew they would be.” He trailed kisses up Sherlock’s body until their lips met again. Greg covered Sherlock’s body with his own, their cocks pressing together. Sherlock shuddered, his eyes going wide as he stared up at him. “How’s this?” Greg asked him.

Sherlock nodded. “Good,” he said, biting back a groan. “Do you want-”

“-Lube, yeah, drawer on your left.”

Sherlock reached out, hunting blindly in the drawer until he found the tube. He handed it to Greg, who covered his hand before reaching down to take their lengths in hand. Sherlock trembled, letting out a soft breath. They kissed with far less finesse, Greg beginning to roll his hips.

Sherlock felt as though he was being unravelled. He couldn’t hear his thoughts. All he heard were Greg’s breathy moans, the wetness of their kisses. He wrapped one leg around Greg’s hip, urging him on. He tilted his head back and Greg’s lips found a sensitive spot on his neck. He held Greg’s head there, tugging gently at his grey hair. His fingers dug into Greg’s shoulder, and the pleasure built up in the pit of his stomach. He could feel it everywhere, the threat of his release, the desperation, the need.

“Oh,” he gasped out, and Greg kissed him, deep and hotly and it was all it took. Sherlock shook as he came, grasping onto Greg’s shoulders, his thighs tensing and relaxing. Moments later, he felt Greg’s hot come land on his stomach and he closed his eyes, breathing hard, running his hands over his face. “Oh,” he said again.

Greg was kissing over his chest. “God, Sherlock,” he murmured. “Jesus Christ.”

“I thought you weren’t religious?” Sherlock joked, just getting his breath back.

Greg laughed and playfully bit his chin, rolling onto his back beside him. “That was…”

“Good. Yeah.” They both looked at each other and smiled. Greg passed Sherlock some tissues and he cleaned himself up. They shared a quick kiss before Sherlock got up to use the bathroom. They swapped over when Sherlock got back, and he got in under the covers, suddenly tired, his muscles relaxed. He was sated, blissed. When Greg joined him, he was already half-asleep. He was pulled into Greg’s arms and the light was switched off. He lay with his ear over Greg’s heart.

“Happy now,” Greg whispered. He kissed the top of Sherlock’s hair. “No being scared about tomorrow.”

Sherlock hummed in response. “Happy now,” he agreed, before he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
